Mares of the Night
by warrior of the nile
Summary: Sherlock has been back a month. Things are returning to normal for the two. John's nightmares are starting to stop. Sherlock's, however, are not.


You learn to run from what makes you feel, and that's why you have nightmares. To deny is to invite madness. To accept is to control.

-Megan Chance, The Spiritualist

Nightmares exist outside of logic, and there's little fun to be had in explanations; they're antithetical to the poetry of fear.

-Stephen King

* * *

Sherlock jerks up, a silent scream on his lips. Images of John on the ground, bleeding from a fatal wound to the head plays in his mind. Images that didn't happen and never will. He had spent the last three years making sure of that.

Now Moriarty's web is gone and he is home, back at 221B. John is upstairs, sleeping soundly. He use to have nightmares, but Sherlock knows they have been steadily decreasing over the month since their reunion.

His, however, have not.

He knows he is being ridiculous. There is no longer a threat on John's life. But Sherlock can't stop his mind from rebelling, from showing everything that could have gone wrong.

He didn't jump fast enough and Morgan shot John while he was watching. John found out that he was alive somehow and was killed. Morgan decided to get revenge on John because he couldn't on Sherlock. One of Moriarty's web saw Sherlock alive and carried the man's final order out. Sherlock missed one of the members of the web, came back and got John murdered as a result.

These are the mental images that have haunted Sherlock for three years. This fear, as well as the determination to prevent them from happening, have kept him going through the long nights and longer days. Through the days he went without eating, without rest. Through the injuries he sustained and the necessary recovery time. Through the days he was captured, thought he wouldn't make it out alive, before escaping after killing all of them.

Admittedly some of his nightmares also came from the latter, but those were almost easier to bare. Although he has developed a fear of still bodies of water and claustrophobia is sure to be a problem.

Sherlock knows none of those scenarios are true, but he cannot seem to convince his subconscious of this. So whenever he tries to sleep, he inevitably dreams. His solution is to not sleep. To stay up, push his body to it's very limit, before collapsing too exhausted for the nightmares to disturb him.

He knows this isn't healthy. That, for however much he scoffs at physical needs and claims his body is just transport, he needs sleep like every other human.

But he can't sleep without nightmares. And once he has one, he can't get back to sleep, no matter how much he tries.

He slips out of bed and walks quietly up the stairs. He stops at the top and listens to John's breathing until his heartbeat has become normal again.

This has become another ridiculous ritual of his. He has to creep upstairs to make sure John is still safe. Still alive. He never enters, not since the first time. John had almost caught him then. Sherlock is more careful now.

John doesn't know about the nightmares. Sherlock never plans on telling him. They have to go away eventually. And Sherlock is not telling John his childish problem. He should be able to conquer them. They aren't real, unlike John's, who dreams of Afghanistan or Sherlock falling.

He goes downstairs and plays his Stradivarius, letting the music sooth him.

* * *

John Watson is not a stupid man. He may not be as smart as Sherlock, but he's no idiot either. He knows Sherlock has been having trouble sleeping. He has shadows under his eyes, shadows that never seem to get lighter, only darker.

One time he woke up to Sherlock peering in his bedroom. John started in surprise, but managed to hide that he was awake. Since then, he has heard Sherlock on the landing a few times, but never in his room.

And he has gone back to his three in the morning concerts. Only this time they are different. They have more feeling to them, more sadness, and sometimes fear.

John knows this has to be the result of his three years away. After he got over his own anger and betrayal, John couldn't help seeing how bad Sherlock looked- tired, too thin, jumpy in a way he had been after one of his tours ended, scars littering his body. He didn't say anything then and he still hasn't. But John knows enough to see he had been through hell and back to keep John safe.

So when he wakes up once again to the sound of a violin, he sighs. He debates the chances of Sherlock realizing John has faked a nightmare if he goes downstairs now, claiming to have been woken by one. They aren't good. He has used that trick a couple of times now, but as his actually nightmares decrease, so do his opportunities to fake one. He _doesn't_ want Sherlock to figure out.

Damn that man's stubbornness. He's going to make himself sick if he doesn't get some decent sleep soon. How he hasn't already is beyond John.

But he knows how nightmares work. How uncontrollable they are. There is no magical cure for them, no medicine you can take to get rid of them. Time is usually the only cure.

Only this time it isn't. It has been a month. By all rights, they should be decreasing, at least somewhat. But they aren't. Not that John can tell. And that is a problem. Generally the next step would be to talk about it. But, as previously stated, Sherlock is too stubborn to. He isn't going to admit to them. And bring them up is a _bad_ idea.

The only course of action right now is to wait him out. But he hates it. John wants so badly to help him. To wrap his arms around him and hold him close. Not a good idea, but John can't help himself.

Over the course of the three years he thought Sherlock was dead, he came to terms with the fact that he is in love with Sherlock. Not in a 'come hither and let me ravage you' kind of way, but a 'let me hold you and never let you go' kind of way.

Except now that Sherlock is alive, he has no idea what to do with this information. He's almost certain his feelings are returned- the man took down an entire criminal web to keep him safe- but he has no clue if it would be welcome if he acted on said feelings. Sherlock doesn't do emotions anymore now than he did then. But maybe he is the exception?

The whole thing makes John's head hurt. It is much easier to focus on the nightmare problem and save any thoughts of love and relationships for another time.

* * *

The next day neither of them say anything about the music the night before at four in the morning. John makes breakfast and forces Sherlock to eat because he isn't on a case. John does the washing up, makes tea and sits in his chair with a book while Sherlock occupies himself in his mind palace.

Time goes on.

Sherlock's nightmares don't stop. The shadows under his eyes grow deeper and deeper. The violin concerts become more frequent as do the times John hears Sherlock outside his door.

John continues to be more and more worried. He knows this can't go on. Something is going to break. The longer it is delayed, the messier it is going to be.

He can only hope that when it happens, they both come out alright.

* * *

The text comes just in time, just as Sherlock is starting to show signs of extreme 'let's shoot the wall for fun' boredom.

Lestrade calls them in to a murder of a middle aged woman. The husband is the most likely suspect.

Sherlock takes one look at her and pronounces them all idiots. It was obviously the wife's brother, framing the husband. That was the easy part.

The rest of day is spent trying to _find_ the brother. For not being smart enough to get away with murder, he is sure smart enough to find a good hiding spot. They have to go to five different locations before they find him.

John breaths a sign of relief when they do. Sherlock had been enjoying himself for the first three locations. After that, he started to get... grumpy. And a grumpy Sherlock is not something John enjoys dealing with.

Of course he runs when he sees them. Of course he does. This leads to a chase around London that eventually ends on the banks of the Thames. Which is disgusting, John would just like to point out.

They finally, _finally_, catch him. They even manage to do it with Lestrade and his team right there. John considers that a miracle in and of itself.

Until, that is, the brother manages to get one more good lunge in before he is cuffed.

Naturally he goes straight for Sherlock. Normally this wouldn't be a problem. Sherlock may be a skinny bastard, but he's one hell of a fighter. Plus he sees _everything. _But John knows he has had a nightmare for at least three nights straight and his reaction time is off.

Sherlock goes right into the Thames.

John watches, slightly worried, but the brother didn't on in after him. Lestrade is putting handcuffs on him and none too gently either. So John waits for his flatmate to come out. When Sherlock surfaces, it is not what he is expecting.

The man is flailing in the water, as if warding someone off.

"Sherlock!" John yells.

No answer. John isn't even sure Sherlock heard him. He dives in then because he knows exactly what is happening. He has seen it too many times not to.

John had treated prisoners of war before. Not too many, but enough. It was never pretty. They were always high-strung, edgy, sometimes not trusting anyone besides their fellow prisoners, sometimes not trusting anyone at all.

And all of them had triggers. Some couldn't stand the sound of guns anymore, some couldn't look at anything sharp, some flinched at ropes or belts. And some couldn't stand bodies of water any larger than a cup- sometimes not even that.

So when he sees Sherlock thrashing in the water, when there is no reason to, John simultaneously feels a deep rage and a deep horror. He pulls Sherlock out with some difficulty, dodging wild limbs, but he manages.

"Give us some room." He barks in his drill sergeant voice to the crowd of officers watching.

They do. John can be very effective when he wants to be.

"Sherlock." He says quietly, moving close, but not touching. "Sherlock, you're not there. You're safe. They can't hurt you anymore. You aren't there. You're safe Sherlock..." on and on and on until finally Sherlock stops shaking. His eyes focus on John and John breathes a sigh of relief. Without a word he hands Sherlock the shock blanket.

He wraps it around himself, looking small. "John." He whispers

John moves then, pulling Sherlock close to him. He runs his hand up and down his back and violent shivers go though the detective's body. "Shh love, I have you. It's alright." He doesn't notice the endearment that has slipped pass his lips and Sherlock doesn't say anything about it. He simply curls into John more, feeling safe.

The rest of the crew watches in various states of shock, confusion and, some, soft gentleness and understanding. John turns his head towards them and any of the former shut their mouths against any snide comments they might make. The latter of the group will eventually tell them even the great Sherlock Holmes can have a PTSD attack.

"Alright people, enough of this, let's move!" Lestrade barks, getting over his shock at seeing Sherlock's shields down.

They move. John helps Sherlock to his feet. Sherlock seems to shake himself out of it, or at least put his masks back up, and demands if they need instructions on what to do with an arrested murderer. But he keeps the blanket around him and John can hear the tremor in his voice that others who don't know him that well can't.

They hail a taxi and go home. Once there John makes tea before taking a warm shower. He should suggest Sherlock have one as well, but he knows that isn't a good idea. Instead he grabs an extra blanket as he goes into the living room. Sherlock has changed into his customary pajama pants, shirt and robe. He has an afghan over him. John puts the other one over him then turns on the telly to a program he knows Sherlock loves to insult.

And insult it he does. But his voice is still off when it ends, so he changes it to an animal documentary. Sherlock is always fascinated with them for some strange reason, even if he won't admit to it.

By this time he is yawing, although he tries to hide it. He doesn't want to leave Sherlock alone yet. He doesn't succeed.

"Go to bed John." Sherlock orders. "You're no good to anyone tried."

John knows there is no use arguing so he nods. "If you need anything wake me up, alright?"

Sherlock merely waves a dismissing hand in his direction. His eyes intently on the elephants on the telly.

John sighs to himself. He already knew Sherlock wasn't going to listen to that piece of advice, but it was worth a shot anyways.

He goes to bed.

* * *

They pushed him under again. He struggles, trying to get away, but the arms holding him are too strong. He can't get away. He is yanked out roughly and he takes a breath before he goes under again.

Too slow. He gets a mouth full of water. He continues to struggle, desperately needing air. The cycle happens again and again until finally he is thrown to the ground. He looks up at his captors, gasping for air. But it's not them he sees.

It's John.

John sneers down at him. "Serves you right." He informs him, voice cold. "You got me killed." It is then that he sees the bleeding wound on the side of John's head. "Some bloody genius you are, can't even fake your own death right. They saw you Sherlock. You didn't even make it a week before they saw you and killed me." John spits in disgust. "Can't do anything right can you? Why didn't you just die Sherlock? Why didn't you just die?"

A gun shot sounds. John falls to the ground, dead. His stare, even lifeless, is accusing.

"No John. No! NO!"

* * *

"NO!" Sherlock shouts. He curses himself. Of all the times for his control to slip, it has to be now. John had been attentive tonight after his panic attack.

He curses himself again. That never should have occurred. He should have seen the attack coming. He also shouldn't have panicked when he was pushed into the Thames. Three sighs of weakness in one night. Pathetic.

Now he can only hope John hadn't heard him.

A false hope.

John comes down the stairs moments later. He had heard Sherlock tossing on the sofa, but hadn't wanted to intervene unless it was necessary. When he heard Sherlock shout, he knew it was.

They both look at each other when John sits next to the detective. John watches as Sherlock closes up on him. "Yes?" He asks expressionlessly. As if he didn't know why John was here.

"You shouted." He states simply.

"Well observed Jo-"

"You never shout."

Sherlock freezes. Never shout? As in John knew about the nightmares before? Stupid. Of course he did. John is not an idiot, no matter what he might say. He obviously knew about his childish problem, but was hoping he would get over it on his own.

"I've known about the nightmares for a while. But I didn't say anything because I know you wouldn't want to talk about them. I figured you would have one tonight because of the flashback." John watches Sherlock's eyes. If you knew what to look for, he was easy to read.

He frowns when the emotions don't add up. "You do know there is no need to be ashamed of them. I've treated soldiers who have gone through the same thing and nightmares have always been the least of their problems." Even as he says this, John knows this isn't the problem. But now that they are having this conversation John is not letting Sherlock get out of it.

Sherlock knows this. He reads the determination in John's eyes. "They are not what you think they are about."

"Not water boarding?" John inquires. Oh god, please don't let there be more.

"This one was. Most of the others are not." He doesn't want to admit to what the others are about. He doesn't want John know how absurd he is being.

"Ok then. What are they about?"

"Irrelevant." Childish, immature, moronic.

"Sherlock, you have been having nightmares almost every night when you sleep at all. It is not 'irrelevant'."

"Yes they are!" Sherlock snaps. "They never happened so I shouldn't be having them. It's weak."

John looks at the man bewildered. Weak? Is this why he hasn't mentioned them? Because he sees whatever he dreams of as a weakness instead of a fear he can't help? This is bad.

"Sherlock, sometimes we can't help our fears. And we can't control our subconscious. It's natural. Even you can't control it."  
"I should be able to." His own control over his emotions was frail from events of today. His usually calm temper gets the best of him. "It's pathetic that I still have these dreams. I shouldn't. I have taken care of the threat. That I still have them shows how pitiful I have become."

"Threat? What...?" John stops. Threat. He stopped the threat. Oh. Good. God. Moriarty's web- that's the only thing it could be. He's dreaming that he didn't successfully take down the web and remove the threat to Lestrade, Mrs Hudson and himself. "Oh Sherlock." He pulls the man into a hug. "We're all safe."  
"Don't you think I know that." His tone is sharp, but he moves closer.

"Tell me?"

There is a long pause. John doesn't expect Sherlock to answer when he starts talking.

"They are the things that could have gone wrong. All of the ways I could have messed up and you would have been killed."

Him? Just him? Oh the great idiot. "And tonight?"

"It... did involve water. But after it was done, it wasn't them... It was you. You had been shot and asked me why I couldn't do anything right. You blamed me for your death."

John is speechless for a moment. A month and a half. He has been dreaming of John's death for a month and a half, most likely longer. Much longer.

Sherlock winces as he sees realization dawn on John's face. Now he is going to know how _stupid, stupid, stupid_ he is being.

"Oh Sherlock, love. It's alight. I'm right here. You kept me safe."  
"That's the second time you've called me that today." Sherlock focuses on the part of that reassurance he can handle right now.

"What?" John's brow wrinkles in confusion.

"Love."

"Oh." Shit. John doesn't say anything, just buries his head in Sherlock's hair.

Sherlock allows a small smile to form on his face. John always has to best ways of declaring himself. He closes his eyes and relaxes fully into his embrace.

John smiles back, knowing this is Sherlock's answer to the endearment. No words needed to be said.

"Come on." He says eventually. Sherlock gets up reluctantly. John grabs his hand and holds it as he leads the way back to his bedroom.

When they get into his bed, Sherlock curls himself protectively around John.

It's the best night's sleep he has had in a long time.


End file.
